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This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction October 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
on this publication was renewed.

LION

LOOSE

By JAMES H. SCHMITZ

The most dangerous of animals is not the biggest and
fiercest but the one that's hardest to stop. Add
intelligence to that ... and you may come to a wrong
conclusion as to what the worst menace is....

Illustrated by Schoenherr

For twelve years at a point where three major shipping routes of the
Federation of the Hub crossed within a few hours' flight of one
another, the Seventh Star Hotel had floated in space, a great golden
sphere, gleaming softly in the void through its translucent shells of
battle plastic. The Star had been designed to be much more than a
convenient transfer station for travelers and freight; for some years
after it was opened to the public, it retained a high rating among
the more exotic pleasure resorts of the Hub. The Seventh Star Hotel
was the place to have been that season, and the celebrities and fat
cats converged on it with their pals and hangers on. The Star blazed
with life, excitement, interstellar scandals, tinkled with streams of
credits dancing in from a thousand worlds. In short, it had started
out as a paying proposition.

But gradually things changed. The Star's entertainment remained as
delightfully outrageous as ever, the cuisine as excellent; the
accommodations and service were still above reproach. The fleecing, in
general, became no less expertly painless. But one had been there.
By its eighth year, the Star was dated. Now, in its twelfth, it lived
soberly off the liner and freighter trade, four fifths of the guest
suites shut down, the remainder irregularly occupied between ship
departures.

And in another seven hours, if the plans of certain men went through,
the Seventh Star Hotel would abruptly wink out of existence.

Some fifty or sixty early diners were scattered about the tables on
the garden terraces of Phalagon House, the Seventh Star Hotel's most
exclusive eatery. One of them had just finished his meal, sat smoking
and regarding a spiraling flow of exquisitely indicated female figures
across the garden's skyscape with an air of friendly approval. He was
a large and muscular young man, deeply tanned, with shoulders of
impressive thickness, an aquiline nose, and dark, reflective eyes.

After a minute or two, he yawned comfortably, put out the cigarette,
and pushed his chair back from the table. As he came to his feet,
there was a soft bell note from the table ComWeb. He hesitated, said,
"Go ahead."

"Is intrusion permitted?" the ComWeb inquired.

"Depends," the guest said. "Who's calling?"

"The name is Reetal Destone."

He grinned, appeared pleasantly surprised. "Put the lady through."

There was a brief silence. Then a woman's voice inquired softly,
"Quillan?"

"Right here, doll! Where "

"Seal the ComWeb, Quillan."

He reached down to the instrument, tapped the seal button, said, "All
right. We're private."

"Probably," the woman's voice said. "But better scramble this, too. I
want to be very sure no one's listening."

Quillan grunted, slid his left hand into an inner coat pocket, briefly
fingered a device of the approximate size and shape of a cigarette,
drew his hand out again. "Scrambling!" he announced. "Now, what "

"Mayday, Quillan," the soft voice said. "Can you come immediately?"

Quillan's face went expressionless. "Of course. Is it urgent?"

"I'm in no present danger. But we'd better waste no time."

"Is it going to take real hardware? I'm carrying a finger gun at the
moment."

"Then go to your rooms and pick up something useful," Reetal said.
"This should take real hardware, all right... Continue reading book >>